


Masterfade

by SiriuslyDontBlink



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (2012), The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst, But it's okay, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Gwen will fix him, I'm getting there, Idk even?, It ok I have a plan., M/M, Peter Has Feelings, Starts out sad, Stony - Freeform, Superfamily, What's the ship name for Peter/Gwen?, and so will Steve and Tony., eventually, give us time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiriuslyDontBlink/pseuds/SiriuslyDontBlink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Aunt May died, Peter was suddenly very alone, and very lost. But, he'd pick up and make it through, because that's what he did. It'd be easier if he could keep Gwen out of danger, but she was stubborn, and Peter was tired, and he liked the hugs anyway. </p><p>The whole Tony Stark situation was her fault, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hold My Head Inside Your Hands

Peter stared at the floor, white tile beneath his worn down sneakers. The hallway was busy, but it was too quiet. Too quiet for his buzzing mind and churning stomach, and he thought he might throw up.

Well, a hospital was the right place to get sick, he figured.  

It had been quiet when the nurse had finally pulled him away. They quietly sat him in the hallway, whispers of sounds, their shoes against the tile. Hushed murmurs of, “I’m sorry,” and, “No, you can’t go home.”

A kindly nurse had taken it upon herself to get Peter a coffee, make sure he took hold of it, wrapping his hands around it. She sat with her hand on his shoulder for a while, silently, and Peter appreciated that, distantly, as much as he could appreciate anything. He didn’t speak.The cup burned through his skin and gave him something to focus on, aside from the thoughts of, ‘I’m alone’, and, ‘What happens now? What are you going to do, Peter, there’s no one left.’  Eventually the nurse left, back to work, back to other sick families, living and dying and breathing and sleeping.  

Peter blinked hard, and said, “I have to go.”

He looked up, away from the floor and his sneakers. No one had heard him. No one was listening. He was no one’s problem.

He stood up, unsteady legs and gangly limbs, and he started to make his way out, ignoring the way the receptionist at the front desk called to him. He was almost to the elevator when a nurse came up to him again, put her hand on his shoulder. Peter stopped walking and looked at her.

“Darling, we can’t let you leave. Do you have anyone we could call? Family? Friends?” The nurse wrapped her arm around Peter’s shoulders and steered him back to a seat. Peter didn’t fight her, too exhausted, mentally and physically. He just shook his head.

“No,  no family,” he mumbled. “I’m alone.”

“All right, darling. Do you have a friend? Someone to come sit with you until we can find you a place to stay?”  

Peter sat down. “I, um, no. Yes.”

 

* * *

 

He didn’t know how long he sat, listening to the busy quiet sounds of the hospital, wanting to sit with Aunt May, realizing he couldn’t, could never again, and wrapping his arms around himself and curling in until he didn’t have to look at his dirty sneakers against the white tile. It was a round circular train of thought he got caught up in again and again, like getting pulled into an undertow or pounded by waves.

He caught a glance of blonde hair, and then soft hands on his face, tilting his head up. He stared at Gwen for a long second, and didn’t move. Her eyes were wide and sad, tears collecting at the corners, and she whispered, “Peter.”

“You came,” he said, because it was the only thing he could think. She came, here, now, because he’d asked, even after all he’d done to her, even after he’d gotten her father killed and then left her. She came, and maybe he was a little bit less alone than he’d thought.

“Of course I came,” she whispered, curling her fingers back into his hair. “I’m so sorry.” And then she was hugging him, gently, like she wasn’t sure how she’d be received. Like she did after Uncle Ben had died, Peter thought. His arms came up and wrapped around her, pulling her close, and she responded in kind, tightening her arms around him and letting him bury his face in her shoulder.  

He pulled in a deep breath, and it smelled like Gwen and home. He made a muffled, pathetic sound into her shoulder, like a sob, and she hushed him, held him tighter and rocked him like a child.

She held him like that until Peter thought he could sit up without his head spinning. His hands still shook a bit, but holding on to her helped, and she scooted closer.  “Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s all right,” Gwen murmured.  

“No, I mean, I’m sorry for all of it.”

Gwen shook her head, strands of hair falling out of the messy bun and curling around her face. She traced his jaw with her fingers. “We’re not talking about this now.”

He nudged her hand with his chin and closed his eyes. “Okay.”  

“Excuse me? I’m sorry to interrupt. Peter Parker?”

Peter looked up. A nicely dressed man with a sad smile stood before him, eyes flicking between Peter and Gwen. “Yeah,” Peter said.  

“I’m Josh Gavin, from Child Protective Services. I’m sorry about your aunt.”

“Okay,” Peter said. That wasn’t exactly the right response, but it was close enough, and the man seemed to understand.

He got a faint smile in response, and, “So, we need to figure out somewhere for you to stay. We have foster homes that would be happy to have you, but for tonight, do you have a friend you’d rather stay with?”

“He’s staying with us,” Gwen said immediately. Peter cast her a surprised glance.  

Josh said, “All right, I’ll need your parents to sign before I can release him to you.”

“I’ll, um, call my mom.”

“Gwen,” he said. She ignored him.  

Gwen called, and Josh took the phone after a minute, taking a few steps away and speaking. Again, Peter said, “Gwen.”

“It’ll be fine,” she said. She stroked her hand through his hair. “Don’t worry.”

“It’s not. What if you get hurt —”

“Nothing’s going to happen. It’s for a little while, if you really don’t want to stay with me —”

“I’m not going to put you in danger.”

“You’re not,” Gwen agreed. “It’s for a couple nights. I’m not letting you say no.”  

Peter sighed and relented, and the next few hours blurred together. Josh drove them to Gwen’s house, where they went inside and spoke to her mom, where they signed papers and made a plan and Peter was vaguely aware of agreeing to stay for a few days, and Josh would come back with a foster family, and somewhere for him to go long-term.

Because he couldn’t stay with Gwen. He wouldn’t. Because he put everyone in danger. (And he’d already gotten her father killed.)

Josh left, eventually, and Peter spent the evening on the couch, listening to the subdued conversation in the Stacey household, and Gwen’s arms stayed wrapped around him. It was a little better, better than the hospital anyway.

He fell asleep early in the evening, and no one bothered him, except to shift him so he was laying on the couch, and put a blanket over him. Gwen stayed close, Peter could feel her running her fingers through his hair, or the warmth of her body laying against his. He spent most of the night in a catatonic, half awake state, not able to fall asleep, but unable to commit to being awake. He took deep breaths and tried not to think about Aunt May, or how he’d have to go home to get his things eventually, or anything about the future, which was a huge blank canvas and it terrified him.

Gwen’s alarm went off early in the morning. Peter heard it from the living room, ringing dully from across the house. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to face school. But, on second thought, the idea of an absent day was worse. At least at school he had work that would mildly occupy him for a short while.  

Stirring, Gwen mumbled something against his shoulder. Peter stroked a hand through her hair and shifted his arm. As grateful as he was that she was still there with him, his fingers were numb.

“S’that my alarm?” Gwen mumbled. “Aw. It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, to both things.

Gwen pressed her palm to his chest and said, “We can stay home. You don’t have to go to school today.”

Peter pulled in a deep breath, her hand heavy on his ribs, and he felt exhaustion settle into his bones. “No. I need to do something. I don’t want to sit and think all day.”

“Okay.” Gwen shifted and pushed herself up onto her elbows. She leaned over and pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes for a small moment, and then she pulled back and got up off the couch.

 

* * *

 

School was typical. A crowd of teenagers, loud and shrieking, flooding every hallway. Peter kept his head down and shuffled toward his classes. When Gwen wasn’t there, he stuffed his headphones in his ears, even when the AP English teacher sent him a stern glare. There was no music, but the headphones deterred people from trying to speak to him, more so than his aggressive slouch and dark eyes.

He tucked them away in his pocket when Gwen caught up with him between classes, wrapping her arm around his and sending him a look that silently asked how he was.

He gave her a light shrug. She tilted her head, and he said, “Tired.”

She reached down and squeezed his hand, leaning her head on his shoulder as they walked, and that was the end of the conversation.

Peter thought again how grateful he was for Gwen.

By lunch, people seemed to pick up that something was wrong with Peter. He ignored them more fiercely, actually turned the volume up on his music, and bent over his food, elbows on the table. As annoying as school was, it was the better option. He didn’t want to go home. Couldn’t face the empty house.

He knew he’d have to, eventually. Needed his things. Needed to pack. Move out.

God, he didn’t want to think about that.

“So,” Gwen’s voice from behind him, just before she took the seat to his right and set down her tray of questionable cafeteria lunch. Peter nodded at her and reached down to stuff his iPod into his backpack. She settled into the seat next to him, her knee brushing up against his. “Professor Lee said Stark Industries accepted your application.”

“Oh,” Peter said, sitting up and looking at her. “Oh yeah. I forgot.”

Gwen smiled, but her eyes read his face and lack of enthusiasm. “You are going to submit the rest of the application, right?”

Peter rubbed his eyes. “I, uh, don’t want to talk about Stark Industries right now.”

“Peter, Tony Stark is interested in you.”

“Tony Stark isn’t interested in me. The foundation that he owns likes to throw money and internships at smart kids.”

“It’s a good opportunity.”

Peter shrugged, and the conversation died out.

 

* * *

 

After school, Peter said, “I have to stop by home.” Home. Not home any more, sort of. Nothing left there, really. He didn’t want to.

Gwen said, “Okay, sure. Just let me drop my bag off at home and we can walk —.”

“I kind of want to go alone.”

There was only a brief pause from Gwen, a small falter in her step that gave her away. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, Pete. Sure. Come back to my place when you’re ready?”

Peter nodded, watching his feet as he walked. Gwen squeezed his arm and then let go, walking down the street in the opposite direction from Peter. He stood still for a few seconds, watching her leave, and feeling very cold. The strings that held him together were wearing thin, and Peter didn’t want Gwen there when he fell apart.

He made his feet move, worn sneakers scuffing against pavement. He got home simply by force of habit, knowing the streets subconsciously, so he didn’t have to think as he walked. He was unlocking the door before he really realized that he was home. Hesitating with his hand on the door knob, Peter closed his eyes for a brief moment and steeled himself.

It was quiet inside, and still. Like everything had been sucked out of the home, and it was just empty walls now. Dropping his backpack by the door, in the usual spot, Peter walked inside, closed the door behind him. The hard footsteps of his sneakers on the floor brought to mind a scene played out a thousand times. Aunt May calling out from the kitchen, “Peter, take your shoes off!” and Peter would say, “Sorry Aunt May,” tiredly, because she said that every time he stepped into the house it was basically their ‘hello’, and then he would go see what was for dinner and she would shoo him out, and — .

Peter swiped at his eyes and glared up at the ceiling.

No more of that. He couldn’t let his mind wander. Do what he came here to do, and try not to collapse into a pity puddle.

Oh, this wasn’t going to work out for him.

Still, he pushed forward into his room, and tried not to look at anything else until he’d closed his door behind him. Clothes. School books. Laptop. He stuffed everything into a bag and tried to think of anything else he’d need. Just in case, and so he didn’t have to come back, he grabbed his extra notebooks full of scribbled research and notes, anything he might need, and then he left the room.   

In the living room, he dropped the bag to the floor and fell onto the couch. This was where Aunt May would sit, when Peter got home too late, and she’d fall asleep here, waiting for him. And then she’d sit up and just look at him, and Peter was sure she knew, but neither of them ever said anything.

He wished he had.

Slumping sideways, he curled his legs under him and hugged a pillow to his chest, burying his face in the plush, breathing in the scent that smelled faintly of Aunt May, and mostly of home and security and his childhood. He clenched his eyes shut tightly, sucked in a breath, and no, he wasn’t crying, he just needed something to hold on to.

This, Peter thought, was the pity puddle thing that he wasn’t supposed to do. He gave himself a watery laugh, because god damn it, he had to laugh at something. Had to do something other than laying here and sobbing.

He briefly entertained the thought of going out, as Spider-Man. Maybe he could swing and stop thinking and do something good, maybe he could save someone, like he couldn’t save Aunt May. Maybe he could do something to make himself less useless.

But no, he wasn’t ready to get up, and he was so tired.

So he stayed there, and tried to breathe through the tightness in his chest, swallowed down his tears and wiped away the ones that leaked through anyway. Eventually, he sat up, his head pounding. He waited, long minutes, until he felt like he could stand without falling over.

The thing was, he felt oddly better.

 

* * *

 

The rush of wind against his face, bursting into his lungs as he swung and twisted to catch himself, and then threw himself into the air again, made him feel alive like he hadn’t in days.  His chest ached as he swung; he’d taken a hit or two or three. His reactions were slow tonight, distracted, and they seemed to sense that. But he’d stopped two robberies and three attacks, and that was something. It was better than it was before, he felt lighter. The pain in his ribs was a catharsis, like the headache brewing behind his eyes.  

He braced himself and landed on the side of Gwen’s building, climbed up two stories to her window. She’d left it unlocked for him. That little thing gave him a warm feeling in his chest, though it was short-lived. He pushed the window open and climbed inside, quietly, silently. Gwen was asleep — the clock next to her bed said it was past three. Peter dropped his backpack on the floor and changed out of his suit, wincing at the colorful bruises on his ribs. His hands were shaking now, like a belated adrenaline rush, and what the hell. He pulled his hoodie over his head, and leaned against the wall, letting that support him.  

Deep breaths, and the ache of bruises against his ribs. He’d heal quickly. Gwen would have something to say about it tomorrow, though, but she didn’t need to see. He slid down against the wall until he was sitting, and leaned his head back. Gwen was buried under a thick blanket, golden hair spilling over her pillow. Peter wanted to climb into bed next to her and wrap his arms around her, but he couldn’t get up. So, he stayed where he was, watched her breathe, and slowly drifted into sleep.  

He came to with the sun in his eyes and Gwen’s hands on his face. “What did you do?” She tilted his head to the left and he let her, blinking up slowly. She had a crease between her brows, and he wasn’t sure if it was a worried one, or an angry one.

“What?” Peter asked, his voice raspy, and he reached up a hand to his face. He winced when he found the bruise under his eye, high on his cheek.

Gwen let her hands fall with a small sigh. “Did you go out last night?”

“Yeah.”

“How many fights did you lose?”

“I don’t lose fights.” Peter reached out for her and pulled her to him. Gwen settled on the floor, leaning against him with a resigned sigh. She pressed against the bruises on his ribs, but they were fading, and it wasn’t bad.  

“Social worker called last night,” Gwen said, resting her head on his shoulder. “Said they have a foster home for you. He’s going to pick you up after school.” She didn’t sound very happy, but Peter was relieved. It meant he had to worry about Gwen a little less. He wouldn’t be putting her in danger, constantly.

“Okay,” he said. “Thank you.”

She gave him half a smile and brushed her hand through his hair. She kissed his cheek. “School. Come on.”

 

* * *

 

Peter zoned out during most of his classes, going through the motions until the physics teacher asked him to stay behind. Peter looked up and gave a short nod, waiting until the rest of the students filtered out before standing up with his bag slung over his shoulder.

“Mr. Parker,” the teacher said. “How are you?”

Peter shrugged. Tried to imply without words how much he didn’t want to talk about this. Didn’t want the teacher’s pity.

The teacher nodded. “I know you must have a  lot on your mind, but you have an interview scheduled with Stark Industries, at the end of the week.”

“I didn’t — I didn’t schedule an interview.”

“I know. I did. They called the school incessantly until one was scheduled. They’d like you to call and confirm, or if it’s a bad time for you, reschedule.” The teacher held out a small piece of paper with the phone number written on it.

“Why are they so insistent on me?” His application hadn’t been that special. He didn’t even really want the internship right now.

“I think they’re very interested in your work with Dr. Connors.”

Peter sighed. That would make sense. But he hadn’t used Dr. Connors as a reference, in his application. “Okay.”

“Thank you. And do let me know how the interview goes.”

“Sure.”

“And, Mr. Parker, if you need to talk —”

“Thanks. Is that all?”

The teacher nodded, and Peter turned and left.

 

* * *

 

The social worker was waiting for him outside. He was calm and nice, and Peter disliked him more strongly than before. He said he’d collected Peter’s things from the Stacey residence already, so they’d go straight to the new foster home. Peter shrugged and got into the car, like he didn’t care. Like he didn’t want anything more than to just go home, his home, back to Aunt May.

He sat in the passenger seat and glared out the window. After ten minutes of driving, Peter started wondering how far away these people were, and if they were going to make him transfer schools.

After long minutes of silence (and seriously, this guy didn’t even play music), Josh spoke up, “Peter, can you tell me what happened to your face?”

His face? Oh. Damn it. It was still bruised from last night. That would probably account for some of the strange look he’d been getting all day. “Nothing. I fell. Skateboarding.”

“And bruised your face?”

“Yeah.”

Josh gave him a look that conveyed his disbelief. “You know, if someone’s hurting you, you can tell me.”

Peter almost laughed. “No one’s hurting me. I was skateboarding.” Were they going to freak out about every bruise now? That was going to be more of a pain than Peter had anticipated.

Josh nodded and let the issue go, and they spent the rest of the ride in silence until he pulled up to a small house, pressed into a row of houses. It was clean and neat and Peter scanned the windows and tried to determine which would be the easiest to climb out of.  

Josh got out of the car and lead Peter to the front door, which opened before they reached it. A couple stood in the doorway, and Peter thought, they look like a commercial. He was ushered inside while Josh got his things. The couple was Sam and Nancy, and they were so happy to have him, they just had a few rules they were sure he could follow, it wouldn’t be a problem, would it?

Peter nodded along and let them talk, which they seemed to enjoy doing. When the social worker left, Nancy said, “Why don’t you go upstairs and settle in. We’ll call you down for dinner, all right?”

Peter left, finding his new bedroom and sitting on the bed, feeling completely overwhelmed. He closed his eyes and lay back, breathing in the unfamiliar scent of the bed, and waited for them to call him back down.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, dinner was a thing. A big sit-down-and-discuss-your-feelings-and-miscellaneous-details-about-your-day thing. Peter didn’t say much. Only answered when directly asked a question. Which was pretty often, but maybe they’d ease off as he settled in. It didn’t seem likely. He gave monosyllabic answers when he could, and when pressed, he explained his homework and the potential internship in great detail, using big words that he was sure they didn’t understand.

So he was being an ass. Sue him.

He was sure they meant well, but he didn’t want it. They let him go, seeming to give up on his surly mood. He hadn’t eaten much, but he wasn’t hungry. That also seemed to concern them, but they kept it to themselves.

Back in his room, he sat down on the bed and stared down at his shoes. He supposed he could get out his homework, or the laptop, and do something kind of productive. He missed his set up at home, missed the basement where he could run experiments and fiddle without anyone hovering over his shoulder. He let out an explosive sigh and lay back onto the bed. He wanted to put on the suit and go out tonight, but he had no idea if they were going to check on him later, and he didn’t feel like dealing with the fight that would ensue if he was found missing.

He hoped they wouldn’t be too overbearing. If he was careful, he could get out and back in, and they wouldn’t even need to know.

He let out an explosive sigh and lay back on the bed, which was comfortable and soft and different and fundamentally not his. He spent a long time not sleeping, staring at the ceiling and listening to the wind blow outside. When he finally did fall asleep, it was well past four in the morning, and when he woke up, he swore at the time. He stumbled out of bed, feeling strange and sluggish and headachy, dressed and went downstairs.

Of course, breakfast was an event, too.

Shit. Peter didn’t have time for this. But both of them sat at the table, and there was a place set for him. “Uh,” he said, hesitating in the doorway.

“Peter! Good morning! Sit down, have breakfast,” Nancy said, smiling in a way that made her whole face scrunch up. Peter felt like that should be endearing, but he only felt annoyance.

“I’m late,” was all he said. And it would take twice as long to get to school.

“You can spare five minutes,” Sam said in a tone that wouldn’t be argued with.

“I have to get to school.”

“Sit.”

Peter bit back a swear and went to sit down.

Nancy, sounding concerned, and like she meant well, asked, “Are you wearing that today?”

Peter looked down at himself. The jeans were his lab ones, torn and stained, but they were the first thing he grabbed, and he didn’t care. He shrugged.

“You could wear a nicer shirt?”

Peter looked down at his chest, which was decorated with a red and blue circle, a white star in the middle. “It’s Captain America,” he said blankly, like he didn’t understand what she meant by ‘nicer shirt.’

Nancy started to answer, but Sam stopped her with, “It’s all right.”  They shared a look, which Peter didn’t care to interpret. He supposed next to them, in their nice button-down and slacks, he looked like a hooligan. Well, they could just deal with that.

The rest of breakfast was near silent, and Peter wolfed his food down, eyeing the time and trying to get out of there as quickly as he could. They said their goodbyes and finally let Peter go.

He was late.  

Of course he was late, he was half way across the city. And, yeah, of course, detention. Great. No problem. Fan-freaking-tastic. Gwen tried to catch his eye from across the room, but he huddled down over his desk, didn’t look up for the rest of the class period, and dashed out when the bell rang.

He couldn’t avoid her all day, though. She caught him just outside his last class, looping her arm through his and ignoring the way he didn’t look up at her or take his headphones out. Peter realized that he’d fallen into a horrific mood, but it was beyond his power to pull himself out of it. Don’t be an ass, he told himself. Gwen’s been so good to you.

She didn’t talk, which was a blessing. Or maybe she just knew him too well. She weaved her fingers with his and her thumb rubbed small circles on the back of his hand. By the time they were off school grounds, Peter felt himself relaxing enough that he could glance down and give her a small, grateful smile.

She raised her eyebrows knowingly and just leaned up to kiss his cheek, squeezing his hand firmly. The message was received. He wouldn’t chase her off that easily, dummy.

Peter leaned his forehead to hers briefly, a silent thank you, and then they continued walking. It was a while before he realized that they weren’t headed toward Gwen’s house, and then realization hit him.

“It’s Friday,” he said.

“Yeah, Pete.”  

He looked down the block, where Stark Tower loomed overhead. He gave an explosive sigh. “Shit.”

Gwen eyed him. “You forgot.”  

“I’ve been a little busy,” Peter started.

“I know, I know. You confirmed, though, right?”

“No,” he said shortly, and Gwen sighed. All at once, Peter felt bad. He hated that sigh. It was an exasperated, sad sound, and he hated that he was the cause of it. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Gwen shook her head. “Let’s go in and see if you’ll still have your interview.”

Peter let Gwen pull him forward, entering into the building and a huge, sleek lobby. Peter just stood lost for a second, before leaning down and murmuring to Gwen, “It’s so shiny.”

Gwen laughed and squeezed his arm.

They made their way to the front desk, where Peter figured he could get some direction. The woman behind the desk raised an eyebrow in vague interest and told him to go up two floors, down the third hallway to the left, and wait there. Peter furrowed his brow, vaguely worried, but followed the directions. Gwen  let him go at the hallway, and said that she’d meet him downstairs when he was finished.  Peter agreed and went into the new lobby to await his fate.

He shouldn’t have worried. He was interviewed by a couple of people — he supposed they were in charge of the interns or scholarships, but all of their questions were, _Tell us about Dr. Connors_ , or, _Could you replicate the genetic formula he was working with?_

Halfway through, when Peter was tired of giving bullshit answers to their bullshit questions, he got his phone out and started to fiddle. For Tony Stark’s company, their mainframe database was surprisingly … hackable. Not that it was easy to hack, necessarily, but Peter found a hole eventually.

Somewhere between halfheartedly making up an answer about incompatible rodent DNA vs reptilian genomes, and programming their computers to display, “ERROR MESSAGE: FUCK YOU” whenever they tried to shut down, he realized that he was rambling and talking, and they weren’t listening any more.

He glanced up, and they were giving him an expectant look. Peter blinked. “Sorry?”

“We said, thank you for coming in. We’ll be in contact with you regarding your internship.”  

Peter took that to mean that he hadn’t been helpful in the least, and they weren’t going to call him. He grinned. “Yeah, of course. Thank you. Shall I show myself out?”

With that, the interview ended, and Peter just felt relief. They weren’t going to call him back, and he could put this whole thing behind him. And Gwen couldn’t be too upset with him. Right? Right.

At least, that lasted until he heard a voice behind him, and he turned to see Tony Stark hurrying down the hallway.

Shit.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummmmmmmmm ... sorry about Aunt May? *hides* I'llfixitIswear. 
> 
> I have a supermegafoxyawesomehot beta-reader, Odysseus37. So blame him for all the mistakes you see in this chapter. (That's how beta-readers work, right?) 
> 
> Next chapter: Tony gets to harass our Pete! Anything you particularly want to see?


	2. I Need Someone Who Understands

Tony Stark was literally the strangest person Peter had ever met.

And, well, Peter had met his fair share of strange people, not least of which had been a lizard-man-monster. Maybe the scientist profession lent itself to the oddball group of humans, and Peter was unfortunately lumped in there together with them. Maybe he just attracted them, like lint to a black shirt.  

Either way, Tony Stark was still walking toward him, his hands flailing out in a gesture, and then pulling back into himself. “I didn’t even see the flaw in the code!” he said by way of introduction. “Of course, I didn’t write that code, I let the flying monkeys do that for this system. Gives them something to do, makes them feel useful, Pepper says I should delegate sometimes, so I did, but then things like this happen, the kid hacks the system, so how am I supposed to let anyone else code? Ugh, kids these days!”

“Uhm.” Peter blinked and tried to follow, but it was Tony Stark, and no one was quite capable of that.

“And by kids, I mean them, not you, though I guess you’re younger than most of my lackeys, huh?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. He shifted his weight, resting on the balls of his feet, and he distantly realized it as a nervous stance. “Am I in trouble?”

“Trouble?” Stark asked, looking surprised. “Nah. Well, I mean, a few years in jail, a felony charge, no big deal, right?”

“Um.”

“Kidding, lying, I was joking. Just assume that I’m not serious about seventy-two percent of the things I say, okay? That’s a good rule to live by, yeah.”

Peter shook his head. “Look, I was just … going …”

“No! Come show me how you did that thing with the code! I mean, I know how, I was watching, it was cool, but come on.” Stark turned on his heel and strode off, like he expected Peter to follow.

Peter, did so, reluctantly. “My girlfriend’s waiting in the lobby.”

“Yeah?” Stark asked in vague interest. Peter was sure he wasn’t really interested. He turned back briefly to wave Peter forward, and then continued walking. He wore half of an expensive suit, and looked like he’d just escaped a board meeting with little more than his sanity. “Good. That’s good for you. She pretty?”

“What?”

“Is she pretty? Your girlfriend?” Stark grinned. “That’s a trick question. I know how girlfriends work. You have to say yes, or you’ll be in trouble.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “She’s beautiful.”

Stark slowed and looked at him, actually made and held eye contact for the first time. Peter felt deeply uncomfortable. And then Stark grinned, and said, “That’s cute.” Peter made a doubtful sound, but kept his protest to himself. Stark didn’t seem to notice. “I can send someone to drive her home so she doesn’t have to wait for us.”

“Uh, what are we actually doing?” Peter followed him through hallways and eventually into an elevator that he was pretty sure was not open for the public.

“Private labs. I hate using the ones downstairs, honestly, I don’t know how my techs cope.”

Those labs were probably way more than Peter was used to anyway, but the elevator stopped and Stark was dragging him down another hallway, and Peter was only kind of keeping up with the stream of words.

Another voice, smoother and cooler and only slightly mechanical came from the ceiling. “Peter Parker, I’m glad to make your acquaintance.”

Peter jumped a few feet, but Tony waved him off. “Not now, Jarvis, it’s fine, he’s with me.”

“Sir, I would have to advise you against stealing teenagers. Need I remind you of the —.”

“No! No, we’re not talking about that, and anyway, I returned that one and decidedly did not start an international incident.”

“It’s alarming,” Peter said, “how much I cannot tell if you’re joking.”

Stark grinned brilliantly. He steered Peter into a lab which, honestly, didn’t look like it’d been used very much. It probably wasn’t Stark’s personal lab, but one he settled for using in situations like this. Peter looked around in awe.

“So, you were here for the internship, right? I’m paying you to stick around?” Stark asked as Peter carefully poked at a screen, which pulled up a holographic display of some machinery with lots of parts and gadgets. Peter looked at it for a few seconds before manipulating the image and separating out the parts and formulas, studying it. He felt Stark’s eyes on him, but tried to look like he was focused on the numbers, so he didn’t have to look up and make eye contact.

“No. I mean, yeah, but I think I pretty much biffed the interview.”

Stark snorted. “I highly doubt it. You’re smart. You look smart. I think it’s the glasses.”

Peter smiled a bit. They hadn’t been interested in him, exactly. But he didn’t argue with Stark, just let the matter drop. Stark reached around him and pulled up a wall of coding. “Here, show me what you did. It’s time I fixed this code anyway.”  

Peter poked at the numbers and showed him where he’d found the flaw. They spent half an hour fiddling with the code and fixing holes, finding new ones. Stark was surprisingly laid-back, and liked to babble. He didn’t seem to care if Peter was listening or not, but it was usually interesting, so Peter did.

His phone went off in his pocket, and Peter jumped. He pulled it out and read the text from Gwen. She had to get home for dinner, and she was leaving to walk home, sorry, she’d see him later. He started texting her back, telling her to wait and that he’d walk her home, when Stark flicked his eyes up and said, “Oh, god, that phone is old,” like he was offended by its existence.

“Um. Sorry?” Peter tried. He sent the text and flipped the phone shut, putting it back in his pocket. Stark shrugged, and looked like he hadn’t realized he’d spoken. Peter said, “I have to go.”

Stark looked up then. “Oh. Yeah, okay. Parents expect you home and all that. I’ll finish up here, and I’ll probably come harass you at some point during your internship.”

“Um, I’m really not sure I got the internship …”

“You did,” Stark said decisively. He waved Peter off. “Jarvis can show you out.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Thank you.”

Stark murmured something back, and Peter left. The guy was absorbed in the computer again and didn’t notice the exact moment Peter left. In the hallway, the mechanical voice returned, guiding him back to the elevator and giving him directions to the exit. It was weird, the voice from the ceiling. Peter wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

He didn’t think much beyond that though, once he got outside. His head was already swimming with the strange things and conversations that had happened, but it calmed when he caught sight of Gwen, waiting on the sidewalk.

She rose her eyebrows fractionally as he approached, a silent question. Peter shook his head. “The interview was terrible,” he told her.

Her face fell. “That bad?”

“They just asked about Connors. Things I wasn’t really willing to tell them, you know?”  

Gwen nodded and wound her arm through his as they walked. “So … that’s it?”

Peter shrugged and watched her shoes, walking in step with his. Her feet were tiny. “Tony Stark might have kind of accosted me in the hallway.”

She glanced up at him, her face dubious.

“I’m serious!” he told her.

She rolled her eyes and smiled. “I believe you.”

“You’re grinning at me.”

“I think it’s funny.”

“He’s so weird.”

Gwen laughed. “What did he want? Is that what took you so long?”

“Yeah. I did a thing with the coding and he got excited? Took me to a lab and we played with computers. I’m not really sure how I ended up in that situation, or how to avoid it in the future.”

Gwen shoved his arm. “Don’t avoid it, that was Tony Stark!”

Peter grinned at her and wound his arm around her waist. “Quirky, potentially mad, super genius. Emphasis more on the mad than genius.”

Gwen huffed and rolled her eyes. “Are you really going to just blow off having Tony Stark’s personal attention for half an hour?”

Peter shrugged. “After I basically told the interviewers to fuck off? I’m not getting the internship, Gwen. I’m not going to come back here, and he’s going to forget about me.”

Gwen sighed, and the subject changed to an essay due on a book that Peter hadn’t read, no, he couldn’t just watch the movie.

When they reached Gwen’s building, Peter hesitated before going inside. Gwen looked back at him questioningly from inside the doorway. Peter shifted a step back and nodded toward the street. “Uh, I think I’m gonna … go out for a bit.”

Something that looked like disappointment was quickly covered on Gwen’s face. Peter felt bad. “Okay. Yeah, okay.”

He just needed to clear his head for a while. It was too crowded with everything over the last few days, and he just wanted to … forget. “I’ll stop by later?” he offered.

Gwen nodded. “It’s always unlocked.” She leaned forward to kiss him goodbye and Peter spent a small moment lost in her warm hand on his cheek and soft lips against his, and then she pulled away and went inside.

He felt cold for a moment before he remembered that he hadn’t wanted to go inside with her.

He turned down the street and started walking aimlessly.

By the time he had the suit on and had made it around a few blocks, the clouds were hanging dark and heavy in the sky. The sun was setting, just barely clinging to the sky behind the clouds, and beyond the sounds of city traffic, Peter could hear the deep rumble of thunder.

Peter sat back on his haunches on the top of a building and tilted his head back, craning his neck to stare up into the sky. He felt the first few drops of rain against his mask, and then looked down, watching the tiny drops of water fall down onto the street below.  He pulled a face. He disliked rain. His grip was always a little more slick against the smooth buildings, and he felt a rush to get home, before Aunt May started worrying too much. She always did when it rained, even though —

Peter felt himself freeze.

He worked his throat until he could swallow, and then he firmly thought, no. He wasn’t doing this tonight. Not when he still had blocks to cover, and not when he still had Gwen to go back to.

He didn’t do a very good job convincing himself of that, though, so he stood up and leaned his weight forward, threw himself from the side of the building and let the wind catch him, and then didn’t think of very much.

By the time he caught himself on Gwen’s building, just under her window, he was sure that everything in him hurt. Even the rain pelting his skin through the thin material of the suit. Even the bruises all over, the ones from thugs and the ones from him being stupid and losing his grip as he fell. He didn’t want to tell Gwen about those.

Pulling himself through the window, he closed it behind him and tried to remember not to stumble or make noise as he leaned against the wall and gave a violent shiver. Gwen didn’t react to the disturbance except to huff a breath in her sleep and turn slightly. Peter looked away.

If he was shaking, it was from the cold, and if his face was wet, he’d been out in the rain.

He pulled his mask off with numb fingers, and then stripped himself of his suit. Pulling the clingy material off him and shivering in the exposed air, he thought about the extreme lack of dry clothes he had, and mentally swore. He rifled through his backpack, which was soaked through, and resigned himself to wearing wet clothes, before he remembered the handful of things he’d left here when he’d spent the night. Pulling open a drawer, he fumbled through it with clumsy, half frozen hands, and finally just pulled on a pair of boxers.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he sat down on Gwen’s bed, feeling the springs creak beneath him. He swiped his hand across his cheeks roughly, wiping away the wetness. It was just rain. The water dripping down from his hair. He was just shivering from the cold.

A small sound escaped him with a shiver, and he pressed his knuckles to his mouth, like if he could keep the sound in, the emotion would stay down with it. Curling in, he lay down along the edge of Gwen’s bed. Didn’t want to climb under the covers and get her wet, but the sound of her breathing, close to him and warm, helped a little bit. His face buried in the crook of his elbow, he tangled his fingers in his hair and clenched his eyes shut. He couldn’t really stop the shivers or sobs wracking his frame, but he kept them quiet, muffled against the bed, until, much later, he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Peter was pulled into consciousness again with Gwen pressing her hand to his back. “Peter?” she mumbled. It was still dark. Too early. Peter curled in closer and willed her to fall back asleep, so he could. Her hand was so hot and it shifted up his back and settled on his shoulder. “God, you’re freezing. What are you doing?” He could hear the sleepiness leaving her voice.

Peter shivered as a chill passed through him, but otherwise didn’t answer her.  

She sat up and ran her hands along his back and shoulders, carded her fingers through his hair. “How long have you been here? Come here.”

He shook his head and shifted as she pulled the blankets up around him. His eyes were wet, and he mentally swore as he wiped them. Gwen caught his hand, which was shaking, and wound her fingers through it. She kissed the back of his hand, and then pulled him closer, and he gave up, collapsed into her and felt himself shaking, from the cold or from the tears, he couldn’t tell.

She gave a soft sigh, murmured something he didn’t catch, and held him. Her arms warmed him, and she didn’t mention his tears, so he pressed his face to the curve of her neck, his breath pooling between them until he fell asleep again.

He woke slowly, warm and generally feeling better. His head hurt faintly, but that was outweighed by the way Gwen was tangled up in the blankets and his legs, her head resting on his shoulder. He ran his fingers through her hair until they got stuck in a tangle, and he felt his lips curving up, an exhaled laugh.

“What’re you doing?” Gwen mumbled.

Peter kissed the top of her head. “Good morning.”

Gwen rolled her eyes and squirmed, shifting up so she could kiss him softly. Peter smiled against her lips. She pulled away enough to ask, “Where are you clothes?” and Peter laughed, glad that she wasn’t going to try to push him, or talk about what happened.

“It was raining?” he tried.

“It was raining,” she repeated, but she was grinning.

“Yeah.” Peter smiled, too-wide and goofy, and rolled so he was on top of her, pressing her into the mattress and holding his weight on his elbows. She smiled with sleepy eyes, reaching up to touch his face. He kissed her fingertips, and then her lips, opening them up with his, gentle and slow and warm.

Gwen’s lips curved up, and Peter tilted his head to kiss the corner of her mouth. She wrinkled her nose and huffed a small laugh. “Morning breath,” she murmured.

Peter groaned and she chuckled, tangling her fingers in the hair at the base of his skull. She shook her head and kissed him again, which Peter decided he quite liked, and he melted into the feeling, sliding his hand down to the slow curve of her waist, the angle of her hip, and resting it there.

Gwen curved her body up into his touch and made the softest whine, like she knew it would undo him if she did anything more, and Peter shifted his hand.

The door opened with a creak and a shuffle, startling Peter out of the nice headspace.  “Gwen, sweetie —.”

A very long, very tense silence fell as Gwen went absolutely still, and Peter, taking his cues from her, froze above her.

“Mom,” Gwen squeaked. Peter thought that maybe he should move to get off her, but no, he was frozen. Yeah.

There was a sigh, and Peter thought Mrs. Stacey might be rubbing her temples.

“Mom, it’s not —.”

“Peter needs to go home,” Mrs. Stacey said, cutting across Gwen firmly. “And breakfast is in ten minutes.”

The door closed, and then it was quiet again, except for Gwen, who started laughing.

Peter made a sound that was a pathetic cross between a groan and a whine and let his head fall down onto her chest, (which, oh, was nice too).  Gwen tugged at his hair and continued chuckling.

“I’m going to go curl up and die now,” Peter muttered, tightening his arms around her waist. Gwen pet his hair. “And I’m taking the window out.”

“Wuss. She’s not even mad.”

“At you.”

Gwen chuckled again.

“Stop laughing at me.” Peter sighed.

“No, really. You’re that sweet cute boy I brought to dinner who was scared of dad. As far as she’s concerned, I’m the bad influence.”

Peter looked at her doubtfully but let the matter drop. “I guess I do have to get home.” He still couldn’t quite say that without a hesitation.

Gwen rubbed his back. “I’ll see you Monday.”

Peter grumbled, but got up.

As expected, half an hour later, Sam and Nancy were decidedly unhappy. They spent a long time lecturing Peter, reminding him of the rules he’d agreed to. Peter maintained a disinterested front throughout the whole thing, even the part where they decided they’d rather him not spend the night at his girlfriend’s house and restricted his curfew to directly after school until he could be trusted to keep curfew or call them.

Peter kept his cool, went up to the room they’d given him, and didn’t come down for the rest of the day. He climbed out the window and sat up on the roof where no one could see him and, yeah, he was brooding. He brought some homework up with him, but he ended up ignoring most of it when his head started pounding. His nose was stuffy, and he tried to convince himself that his throat wasn’t hurting, but it wasn’t much use. He got tissue, a jacket, and traded his homework for a novel he had to read for school anyway.

He came down after it was dark and they’d stopped knocking on his door for dinner. His phone had a handful of messages when he checked it, most from Gwen, checking to make sure he was okay. He texted back that he was fine and said goodnight.

He fell into bed, exhausted.

Morning came, and Peter woke, feeling heavy and more tired than he had before, bruises aching along with the rest of his body. He kicked his blankets off, too hot, and mumbled a swear.

He had a fever. This stupid cold was going to be more trouble than Peter had hoped. His awesome accelerated healing factor could go ahead and kick in any time now.

Seriously.

He groaned and pulled the blankets over him again. Most of the day was spent doped up on Nyquil, hazing in and out of sleep, and answering Gwen when she texted him.

He felt a little bit better by the time Monday morning rolled around, but he was still slow on the uptake. He forgot that he’d have to stop and eat breakfast, which was silent on his part.

Halfway through the first period, Peter ducked into his classroom, trying and failing to avoid the eye of the teacher. He caught Gwen’s eye as he shuffled in and sat down in the empty desk next to hers. She gave him a look that meant, “We are going to have a conversation later,” but then offered him a small smile.

Peter returned a grimace.

The teacher watched with a slight glare as Gwen reached across and handed Peter her notes from the beginning of class, before dismissing it and continuing the lecture. When the teacher looked away, Gwen sighed and tugged Peter closer so she could wrap her scarf around his neck. Peter gave her a halfhearted glare as she tied it, unable to protest without drawing the teachers attention, and Gwen smiled sweetly.

When Peter was half asleep, and the class was almost over, a voice over the intercom interrupted the lecture, and called Peter to the office.

Peter felt every eye in the class focus in on him as he lifted his head quizzically. Gwen shrugged. “Oh … kay.” Peter picked up his backpack and gathered his stuff. “I guess I’ll see you later?” he said to Gwen as a goodbye.

“Yeah. I’ll save you a seat.”

 

* * *

 

Tony Stark was a chameleon. Put him in front of a crowd, and he was charismatic billionaire. Put him in a metal suit, and he was intense superhero. Put him in the hallway of Peter’s high school, and he was …

Peter sighed.

“Aha! There you are!” Stark walked toward him. His grease-stained jeans scuffed the ground, and Peter could see the glow of the arc-reactor despite the three layers of shirts the guy wore. He looked like the eccentric uncle that everyone avoided at family gatherings. “They called you to the office, but that was taking too long, so I went to find you.”

Peter shook his head lightly and refrained from rolling his eyes. “You found me,” he said.

Stark grinned. “Great! Ready to go?”

“Uh, go?”

“Yeah. Come on, the car’s pulled up and everything.” Stark started walking toward the exit, and then stopped abruptly, and shoved his hand in his pocket. “Oh! Slipped my mind. Here.” He tossed something at Peter, who caught it deftly. “Nice reflexes.”

Peter looked at the small, thin screen in his hand. He blinked. “Is this the new Stark Phone?”

“Oh, observant. Yes, you’ll do.”

Peter glanced up to Stark, whose eyes were alight with amusement. “I mean, I can’t …”

“Right. It’s called a gift, Einstein.”

“But, I … sorry, thank you, but … why?”

“Because your phone is offensive. I can’t have you around using that thing. People will _see_. They’ll start to think things.”

“Okay,” Peter said, choosing to dismiss most of that rather than try to understand it. “But, I mean .. You’re Tony Stark.”

Stark laughed. “Ah! Your observational skills are phenomenal! Did you just say that? You did. We’re going to pretend you didn’t just say that. You get a free pass. Just this once, because, honestly, I like you kid, but you can’t go around saying stupid things like that, you just can’t. It’s embarrassing.”

“Um, okay, sorry?” Peter said.

Stark waved off the apology. Somehow he had gotten a hand on Peter’s back and had started gently guiding him forward without him noticing. “So, after you left, I ended up basically redoing the security, and I think you should see it. I added this new code that —.”

“Wait, I have school.”

Stark gave him a look like he was crazy, or dumb. Peter wasn’t sure he could interpret it. “You don’t need it, seriously kid. Come on.”

“I can’t just leave,” Peter said. “I’ll fail Econ if I miss this test —.”

Stark waved him off. “Psh, you won’t need to worry about managing your money if you’re going to be my assistant. Speaking of, you _literally_ fucked up the interview. How does one even do that?”

Peter furrowed his brows and blinked. He was going to need to get used to the abrupt subject changes, probably.

“Frankly I had to make up this position for you. Well, I had to have Pepper make it up. The guys didn’t even want you downstairs, so you’re my assistant, which just means you get to play with the advanced toys in my lab, which is cool. We’ll go over papers and stuff in the car.”

Peter sighed and resigned himself to being dragged around by Tony Stark, who seemed pleased with that response. He chatted as they walked out into the parking lot. Peter looked down and fiddled with the new phone in his hands, sleek, glossy screen and, he flipped it over and paused. He ran his fingers over the Captain America print on the back, and lifted his eyes up to Stark, deadpan. “You’re funny.”

Stark cackled. “I’m a _big_ fan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, some Tony interaction! Heeeey! And, as per tradition, blame the beta reader (Odysseus37) for mistakes. We love our beta reader. 
> 
> So I'm thinking we'll meet Steve next chapter. Are you feelin it? 
> 
> Bear with me. This is all slow to develop. But it's going. See. They friends now. Severe emotional trauma to be inflicted AFTER the characters are invested in one another. 
> 
> Ahem, I mean what?


	3. I Need Someone Who Hears

Peter was a fast learner. He’d always considered himself good at picking up skills, especially on his own, and especially in life-or-death situations. But tuning out Tony Stark was a difficult task, and one that would take more time to perfect. It wasn’t so much tuning out as it was filtering and picking out the important bits. As it was, Peter made due with his limited skill. 

He wasn’t sure what a “Dummy” was, or why getting stuck rewriting its upgrade code was a bad chore, but either way, he didn’t want to be stuck with it, so he made a mental note not to call Tony, “Mr. Stark.” 

As Tony shoved him out of the elevator, and Peter’s eyes widened, he figured that he probably should have expected it. It wasn’t surprising that as Tony Stark’s “assistant” he’d have access to almost the entirety of Stark Tower, including the common floor of the Avengers Mansion. He was still awe-struck for a few seconds.

Tony seemed to notice, and Peter was jolted out of his staring by an elbow to the ribs. “Don’t drool on my carpet.” 

Peter closed his mouth with an audible click. “Sorry.” 

“This is what does it? After showing you my labs, and my AI that I developed at seventeen, and my _Iron Man suit_ ,  you start drooling at the _living room?_ ” 

Peter pressed his lips together and shrugged. He couldn’t help but think, _Bruce Banner probably cooks in that kitchen,_ and then, _holy crap, Captain America probably sat on that couch._  

He realized that he was being a complete fangirl, but really, it couldn’t be helped. This was Captain America’s living room. 

Tony rolled his eyes and sighed, but it sounded indulgent, so Peter wasn’t worried. Soon enough, Tony was dragging him off again, finished with the tour and ready to show him the upgrades to the security system. 

It was a few hours before Peter realized what time it was, and how absorbed he had been in the work. There were no windows in the lab, but he imagined it was almost dark outside. 

A throat cleared in the doorway, and Peter realized why he’d been pulled out of the work. He glanced up, pushing up the safety goggles away from his eyes and blinking. There was a man in the doorway, his solid frame blocking most of the new light. He had a strong jaw and kind blue eyes, and looked a little more confused than not, but that was quickly changing to a calculating stare. 

“You must be Peter.”  

Peter nodded before the voice registered; the deep, calm tone. His eyes widened and he fumbled, dropping the tool he’d been holding. “You’re Captain America.”

Tony finally looked up, registering the dropped tool and frowning. 

The Captain’s eyebrows rose in brief surprise. “Yes.” 

“I recognized you. I see you on the news. Well, that, and I saw all your old film reels. Like, on youtube. But you look the same, and  you’re a really big inspiration to me and I …” Peter was babbling. He was rambling and babbling and it was really embarrassing and he couldn’t stop. 

He heard a snort, and cut a glare to Tony, who quickly schooled his features into something resembling normalcy. The Captain was blushing — Captain America blushed? 

Tony interrupted with, “Why aren’t I an inspiration to you? I build things!”

The Captain rolled his eyes, but he ignored Tony and stepped into the lab. Peter elected for ignoring Tony as well, in favor of the Captain offering his hand and saying, “Well, I’m Steve. Nice to meet you.” 

“Peter,” he said, taking his hand. “I mean, you knew that already, but …” Oh, god, why was he a babbling idiot? 

Captain America — Steve — just smiled. “Yeah. So, Tony’s roped you into working with him?” He cast his eyes up to Tony. “I hope he didn’t pull you out of school for that.” 

Peter thought it was funny how Tony definitely didn’t meet Steve’s eyes, but still kept his chin high and said insistently, “He doesn’t need that school! He’s smarter than all of the teachers!” 

“I don’t mind,” Peter said. “Well, I kind of mind, but this is more interesting.” 

Steve rolled his eyes and looked like he was preparing for an argument he’d had before. “Tony, you can’t —”  

“All right, Captain Tightpants, we’ve been through this, let’s not beat a dead horse.” 

A flicker of annoyance flashed across Steve’s face, and he smoothed his features. “Okay. Well, you two need to eat. It’s dinner time.” 

“By ‘dinner’ do you mean leftover chinese food in the living room, or actual sit-down dinner?” Tony asked. 

“Leftover food.” 

Peter remembered the lecture he’d gotten, last time he was late to the foster home, and the new rule about being home for dinner. As Tony made a pleased sound and grabbed him, turning him and pushing him toward the door, Peter decided he didn’t care. 

He was steered up to the living room, Tony talking excitedly again about plans for projects, and Steve following behind them, giving an almost inaudible sigh. They settled in the living room, and true to promise, Peter was fed leftover chinese food. Tony, who couldn’t sit still for more than two consecutive minutes, pulled up a hologram, blueprints layered on top of each other, of something Peter couldn’t quite make out. He turned to Peter. “Can you figure out what this is?” 

Peter paused with chopsticks half way to his mouth. He looked at the hologram and reached out his free hand to poke at it and separate the pieces, studying them. Tony watched and let him figure it out quietly. 

“Eat,” Steve reminded absently. 

Peter got the chopsticks to his lips and asked through a mouthful of noodles, “Is that part of the Iron Man suit?” 

“Almost! Look closer. What does it do?” 

Peter leaned forward and made the image bigger, manipulating it and turning, studying the inner workings of it. 

Before he could answer, a door slid open and Peter looked up at the woman walking through. Her heels clicked on the floor as she walked forward with intent. She wore black, a dress that clung to her in all the right places and floated just above her knees. Dark red hair and perfect lips that pressed together when she caught sight of Peter. She dismissed him, eyes moving on to Tony and Steve, and Peter felt small. 

She said, “Coulson called. Suit up.” 

Peter registered her words and felt an excited thrill shoot through him. The Avengers were being called out? 

Tony didn’t seem to register the excitement though. “Why aren’t you on your date?” 

She stared at him impassively. “Hawkeye is pulling the jet up. We’re leaving in three minutes. Suit up.” 

Peter wondered if he could figure out where they were going. Maybe he could follow them? 

Tony said, “Fine, fine, bossy.” 

If all else failed, Peter could just follow the explosions and supernatural monsters, right? 

“Get the civilian kid out of our living room.” The Black Widow left, and Peter felt more relief than indignation at being called a kid. Or a civilian. 

“I’ll have someone take him home,” Tony said, waving a hand like that wasn’t a matter that concerned him.  

“No,” Peter protested. “I’ll walk. I’d rather walk.” If he had someone driving him home, he couldn’t follow them. He wanted to at least _watch_ The Avengers work. 

Tony shook his head, and stood up. He started walking off, mumbling in a tone that Peter couldn’t have heard if he hadn’t had enhanced hearing. Steve filled in anyway. “There will be a car waiting for you outside. You should go now. I’m sorry we can’t walk you out.”  

Peter shook his head and stood up to go get his backpack. His suit was in his backpack. “No, it’s fine. I totally get it. I’ll go, don’t worry about me.” 

Tony looked back once and waved. Peter waved back, Captain America nodded at him, and then he was gone. 

He didn’t go downstairs to the car. 

He figured they would be too busy for the next few hours to check up on him and make sure he got into the car. He made it to the ground floor, before ducking out a side door that wasn’t the main entrance, and scaling the wall of the building closest to the Stark Tower. It wasn’t nearly as tall, but it was enough cover that he could change into his suit. He heard the jet taking off, and the Iron Man suit following, zipping ahead. 

Peter grinned, changed, and followed.  

As he suspected, the fight wasn’t hard to find. It was in the central part of the city — why did things always happen in the middle of the city? Peter got there late. The fight was already underway, The Avengers having arrived a good few minutes before Peter, seeing as how his web-swinging didn’t quite compare to a jet. 

Not that he was complaining. 

Well, he might be. A little bit. Sue him. 

He stayed in the alley between two buildings, clinging to a wall, and observed the situation.  The streets were crawling with … Peter didn’t know what they were, but if he had to put a name to it, he’d call them sewer monsters. Some reptilian creature, but more like a dog, and the size of a horse. 

Did he mention the razor-claws? Peter did not envy Captain America or the Black Widow, facing off with them on the ground. Hawkeye must be up there somewhere, because some of the beasts were dropping, arrows protruding through their eye sockets, and sometimes exploding and making a mess. Iron Man flew above and assisted when needed, otherwise picked off the creatures at the edges, trying to form a perimeter and limit the damage. He wondered, since the Hulk wasn’t there, if they had Bruce Banner in the background, running tests and trying to figure out _what_ the monsters were, and maybe how to kill them. 

Peter sat back on his haunches and watched them work. It was pretty thrilling, watching the team work seamlessly, like they didn’t even have to glance at each other to know when an arrow needed to hit a beast, or the Widow needed to duck so the Captain could throw his shield. 

The teamwork continued through most of the fight, until a point where Iron Man was occupied with a squad of beasts as they moved past his perimeter, and Hawkeye was picking off a cluster that had Captain America cornered. The Black Widow was open, and three or four of them were closing in. 

Peter moved. 

He got there in only a few seconds, and despite his distinct lack of weapons, he charged in. He landed on one of the creatures, letting his weight and the inertia of his fall knock its head to the ground, where he blasted it with web until it was securely set. He jumped and ducked away from the flailing claw. Ah, the thing was angry, but not particularly strong or smart, which was nice. Good. Peter shot webs and plastered the front razor-claws to the ground and — ah! Ducked away from the creature behind him which — 

Which the Black Widow killed with one swipe of a knife to its throat.

Gross. 

Cool. 

And back to fighting Sewer Creatures. He and the Black Widow took down that group, Peter incapacitating and Widow finishing them, and by the time they were done, there rest of the team had handled theirs and that seemed to be a wrap up. 

Peter stood, indecisive for one moment, as the team’s focus seemed to shift from the monsters, onto him, and then he shot a web, and ran. 

He didn’t stop swinging, even after he’d made detours and was positive they weren’t following him, and even after he’d passed Stark Tower. He finally stopped at Gwen’s building, landing at the top and stumbling, hands shaking with adrenaline, and he laughed. Loud and a little bewildered. 

He couldn’t remember if he’d laughed, actually laughed, since Aunt May died. Gwen would know. The thought didn’t dim him. He’d just fought monsters with The Avengers. 

Of course, he was uninvited, but he kind of saved the Black Widow’s life, so that might make up for it. He didn’t care. Whatever. 

His suit was kind of gross, and he had to get blood out of it, again, but he wouldn’t worry about that right now. He stripped it off and stuffed it into his backpack, changing into regular clothes and taking a few deep breaths to calm down before he climbed down the side of the building and tapped on Gwen’s window. 

It was open, but she came to the window and pushed it up for him anyway. She looked a little confused. “Shouldn’t you be at your foster family’s?” 

Like a rock hitting the water, Peter’s stomach sank. “Oh,” he said. 

Gwen must have seen his face fall. “Come in anyway. You went out tonight?” 

Peter climbed through the window. His arms were tired from all the swinging he’d done today. “Yeah. Well, I didn’t mean to. You’ll probably see it on the news.” 

Yeah, he was using the overly casual tone on purpose, and yeah, it wasn’t kind to tease her, but he was a teenaged boy and he liked the way her eyes widened impossibly. She said, “Peter, what did you do?” 

He laughed. Her brows furrowed and her nose wrinkled. Trouble signs, Parker.  “Okay, I’m sorry. Nothing, nothing bad.” She relaxed a little at that, taking his word at face value. “You know how Stark pulled me out of school?” The whole school probably knew. 

She nodded. 

“I spent the afternoon with him. I got a job there, but I’ll explain that later. Anyway, The Avengers got called out. And I followed.” She looked like she didn’t think that was the smartest decision, but she didn’t say anything, and Peter appreciated that. “It’s fine and I didn’t get hurt, and we don’t have to talk about it any more.” Peter leaned in to kiss her, and she let him. He could feel a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. 

His arms wrapped around her so he could kiss her more, and she slid her arms around his neck and let her weight lean on him. She pulled away and rested her forehead against his, tangling her fingers in his hair. “What am I going to do with you, Peter Parker?” 

Peter smiled. If he pushed away and ignored the ball of nerves in his stomach at the thought of his foster family and how much trouble he was going to be in, (and he did,) then he was good. He felt warm, and content, and Gwen was kissing him. “Am I a problem?” he murmured. 

“You are something,” she said, and then she was grinning brightly and pulling back. “That reminds me. I have a gift for you.” 

“A gift?” Peter asked, trying not to feel disgruntled at the loss of her in his arms. 

Gwen nodded. “From my mother.” 

“Oh?” And then a box was flying at him, and Peter caught it an inch from his face. Small, rectangular, and — “Condoms?!” 

Gwen’s eyes brightened in amusement. “She wanted to make sure we were being safe.” 

“Did you tell her we’re not having sex in your bed!” 

Gwen was holding back laughter. “She’d rather we be safe here than not somewhere else.” 

Peter felt himself blushing red. “Gwen!”

She laughed. She was laughing at his blush. Why did he even like her?  “I’m just relaying the message!” 

“I don’t want the message!” Peter dropped the condoms on the desk, like he could forget the implications. 

“I had to sit through a quarter-hour talk about safe sex and boys. I think you’re coming out on the top end of this deal here,” she said. 

Peter grumbled and lay back on her bed, stretching out his limbs and relaxing them.  Gwen climbed onto the bed next to him and lay down, huffing a laugh against his neck when Peter wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer.  They stayed that way until Peter started drifting off, and Gwen pushed his chest, telling him, “Get home. You’re going to be in even more trouble if you sleep here.” Peter made a face. Gwen pet his hair. 

He sighed. “I have to deal with it eventually, I guess.” 

Outside was colder, but he had a jacket now, rather than just the spandex of the suit. It was dark, but he was tired and didn’t feel like swinging across the city. It would take him a while to get to the foster parent’s house just walking and taking the subway, but he preferred it. 

Also, he might be prolonging the inevitable. 

By the time Peter got to the street and approached their house, it had taken a little over an hour. All the lights in the house were on, and Petter winced. It was significantly later than ‘after school.’ 

But, how much more trouble could he get in, really? 

Quite a bit more, as it turns out. 

They sat him down at the kitchen table — all the things seemed to happen at their kitchen table. Peter was tired of that table. And them talking at him. He mostly ignored them except to glare a little more with each new rule; they’d drop him off and pick him up from school, he’d do his homework downstairs, eat dinner, and give them his phone before he went upstairs. 

Peter sat silently, hand in his pocket, running his thumb over the slightly raised Captain America decal on the back of his new phone, and tried not to look like he was listening, when he wasn’t. 

“Peter.” Sam’s voice was the most stern Peter had ever heard it. He didn’t really care. “Answer when we ask you questions.” 

Peter glanced up, his expression unchanging. “What?” 

Nancy sighed. “I know this is a big adjustment for you, and you’re going to be unhappy for a while, but you cannot break our rules.” 

“Yeah,” Peter said, because he’d heard that five times already. 

“Were you at your girlfriend’s?”  

“Does it matter?” he asked. 

“Peter, answer the questions we ask you.” 

“Yeah.” It was a good excuse, anyway. He had been with Gwen for a little while. 

They sighed. “Okay,” Sam said. “You can text her from here, until you have better judgement.” 

Peter wanted to laugh, except he was really pretty angry. “I have a job. After school.” 

“Okay. Where?” 

“Stark Tower.” 

Sam said, “Peter, don’t lie.” 

He blinked. “Sorry? I’m not lying. I have a job. I need to be there.” 

Sam said, “I”ll pick you up from school at three.” 

Holy shit, he was not going to deal with this. A knock on the door cut him off before he could say anything probably stupid. Sam and Nancy both paused, and then Nancy went to answer it. Peter could only hear soft murmurs, and then the shuffling of feet. Nancy came back into the kitchen, lips pressed together and looking a little paler than usual. Behind her was a man in a dark suit, wearing a mild expression. 

Sam said, “Is Peter in trouble?” 

Peter felt a little indignant at that. The man raised his eyebrows slightly and said, “No, of course not. But I would like to speak with him alone. I have friends in the other room who would like to speak with you and explain things.” Sam and Nancy hesitated, and the man gave them a small smile, a press of his lips, and, “Please.” 

They both listened, which Peter found miraculous. When they were alone, the man took a seat at the table next to Peter and let the silence sit until Peter shifted, uncomfortable, and said, “Um …” 

“I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Parker,” the man said. 

“Okay.” 

“I’m with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division,” the man said. “My name is Agent Coulson.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummmm. Sorry it took me so long to update? *hides* School and finals are over, though! That's cool! This chapter is a little shorter than normal, but we can blame, firstly, school, and secondly, I'm on vacation. I'll give you guys a super big chapter next time to make up for it.
> 
> As promised, there's some Steve, and also the rest of the Avengers mostly. Aaaand we'll see what Coulson has to say, later. Hehehe.
> 
> Also note that Odysseus37 continues to be an awesome beta reader/motivator.


	4. For You I've Waited All These Years

 Peter had a headache that lived just behind his left eye. It was building, and Peter just wanted this night to be over, but Agent Coulson was watching him calmly, like he was waiting for a response.

Peter said, “Okay.” The Agent already knew his name, so Peter didn’t quite know how else to respond to that. “Nice to meet you. Sorry, just … what are you doing here?”

“Are you comfortable speaking with me here?” he asked, which wasn’t an answer at all.

“Sure,” Peter said, even though, not really. This house wasn’t comfortable at all, but that was just because it wasn’t home. It was something he’d deal with. “Um, you said Coulson? Like the Avengers’ Coulson?”

The agent smiled, a tiny curve to his lips. “How’s your internship with Mr. Stark?”

“How is it that you know everything?” Peter asked.

Coulson put his arms on the table and folded his hands. “Mr. Parker,” he said. Peter wished he would take his sunglasses off so he could see his face.  “Your activities as Spider-Man have us concerned.”

Peter froze up for a second too long to play it off as natural. He swallowed. “I don’t —”

“I understand,” he said slowly, “that you wish to keep your identity hidden. And SHIELD is standing behind that fully.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“If Spider-Man is —”

“You can’t just say that.”

“If Spider-Man is going to continue in this direction, and continue getting into those types of situations, SHIELD feels it would irresponsible to leave you without resources.”

Peter clenched his jaw and cast a furtive glance toward the door.

Coulson said without missing a beat, “Your foster family is outside. The house is secured. We’re alone.”

Peter looked back to Coulson and stared at his reflection in the glasses. “What kind of resources?”

“Can we be honest with each other?” Coulson asked.

Peter said, “I don’t see that I have a choice, really. Do I?”

“We’re trying to offer you an opportunity —”

“I don’t want it.”

“— to potentially liaison with SHIELD and the Avengers.”

Peter looked at Coulson, who stared right back. “Spider-Man doesn’t work with a team.”

“Neither did Iron Man,” Coulson said. “Until he did.”

“I don’t need SHIELD to start keeping tabs on me.” Spider-Man was his thing. He was good at it, and it was his escape. He wouldn’t let anyone else come in and tell him how to do it.

“Mr. Parker, SHIELD has been keeping tabs on you since Spider-Man appeared on our radar. I don’t expect that to stop any time soon, regardless of your decision.”

Peter let out an incredulous laugh. “Do I get a say in that?”

“We’re just doing our job.”

“What, spying on amateur superheroes?”

“Monitoring for threats, yes.”

Peter snorted. “Am I a threat?”

“No. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Right. You’re here to get someone to babysit Spider-Man.”

“Mr. Parker,” Coulson said, and Peter could feel a shift in his tone. This was the Agent that dealt with the Avengers on a regular basis, and gained their solid respect. “I am much past the point in my career where I have to put up with belligerent teenagers.” He let that stand for a few seconds. “SHIELD sent me because you’re invaluable. You’ve impressed us. And should we require your assistance with a situation in the future, we’d like to have a civil working relationship.”

Peter stared at the table and traced the grooves of wood with his eyes. “Yeah. Got it. Sure.”

Coulson softened. Peter could hear it in his voice. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“So, does that mean the Avengers know? Does Stark know?”

“SHIELD stands by your decision to keep your identity a secret,” Coulson repeated.

“Until it’s convenient for you?”

“Until you choose to disclose it.”

Peter swallowed. “You’re not going to tell Stark?” That would be an actual nightmare.

Coulson shook his head. “Stark is not the best at keeping things quiet.”

“Yeah, that whole, ‘I am Iron Man’ thing, right?”

The smile Coulson gave him seemed a little bit more genuine. “Yes.” He stood up and held out a small business card. “Here. Feel free to contact me if you need anything, Peter. We’ll be in touch.”

Peter nodded and took the card, turning it over in his fingers. “Thanks.”

“If your foster parents ask, I’m checking up on you for Mr. Stark. You never got into the car he called for you. I have people explaining the situation to them.” Coulson cast him a look that seemed to be chiding Peter to be more careful.

Peter nodded again, and didn’t look up as Coulson left. The screen door fell shut behind him.

Sam and Nancy came back in after everything had quieted down. Peter fiddled with the business card and memorized the phone number, because he didn’t want to look up at them. He thought about explaining himself to them, or pretending to, but he didn’t. It wasn’t worth it.

Nancy sat down at the table next to him with a tired sigh.

“I’m going to bed,” Peter said, before they could continue the conversation that was interrupted.

“Peter,” she called. He reluctantly lowered himself back into the chair. “Peter, you’re a good kid. I know you’re having a hard time adjusting. I’m sorry we yelled at you.”

Peter dug his thumb nail into a groove of wood on the table.

Sam said, “But the rules still stand.”

Peter nodded.

“Get some sleep,” Sam said, his tone softening. “It’s been a long night. We’ll have to head out early to get to the service on time.”

Swallowing down his reaction, Peter went upstairs. He didn’t sleep.

 

* * *

 

They buried Aunt May in the morning. Peter had been trying not to think about it, but now he couldn’t really avoid it. Margaret Thompson, who was an old friend of Aunt May’s, handled most of the arrangements. It should have been Peter, but she seemed to understand what was unspoken, and she’d taken initiative. She’d set the date and ordered the flowers and chosen the— the casket, and all Peter had to do was show up, because he owed that much to Aunt May.

He didn’t want to. He was a crappy person, because he didn’t want to go. It would just hurt, and he was pretty sure Aunt May didn’t care one way or another. What did it matter?

He went. It was a beautiful ceremony, and everything went nicely, and it hurt. Peter sat at the end of a row of chairs and didn’t say anything to the people who approached him to offer condolences. He tried not to glare. Crying would probably be socially acceptable right now, but he couldn’t do that, either.

He stayed just long enough to watch them lower her into the ground, and then he left.

Sam and Nancy didn’t try to talk to him on the way home, and he was grateful. The sun was low in the sky by the time they pulled up to the house, and Peter was tired. He got out of the the car and hesitated. There was a blonde figure sitting on the front step.

“Gwen?” he asked. She looked up and stood, walking toward him. Her hands twisted in the sleeves of her sweater, and her lip was raw, like she’d been biting it. She was worried. Peter frowned.

“Hey,” she said. “You weren’t at school.”

Peter hadn’t even really thought about school. But he should have thought to warn Gwen that he wouldn’t be there. “Sorry,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam and Nancy go inside the house. To give us privacy, I guess, Peter thought.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m …” He wasn’t fine. But, then, he hadn’t really been fine since Aunt May had died.

Gwen looked behind him and something shifted in her expression. “Was the funeral today?”

Peter nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Because he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to make Gwen go. He couldn’t ask her to go after he left her alone for her father’s funeral.

“Peter,” she said, and it was a sigh. It was that tone, and Peter couldn’t deal with that right now.

“Look, Gwen, don’t.”

“Don’t what?” she asked, her voice sharper than it had been before. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”

“I don’t need your help!”

“Well, that’s too bad!”

They stood for a few tense seconds, facing each other. Gwen’s jaw was set, and Peter clenched his fists. He broke eye contact first.

Gwen asked, “Why didn’t you ask me to come to the funeral with you?”

“Because — Jesus, Gwen, I forgot! I didn’t think about it! I didn’t even want to go.” He made a scoffing sound, turned away. “Anyway, we’re even now. You went to your father’s funeral alone, and I went to Aunt May’s.”

“What?” she asked. She stepped closer and Peter could feel the glare that didn’t relent until he looked up and met her eyes. “Is that what this is? Some way to get even? Some stupid way to punish yourself because you felt bad that you weren’t there?”

“Should I not feel bad?” Peter clenched his jaw. “Are we going to pretend that all of that is fine? Because it’s not!”

“It’s — no, it’s not fine.” Her voice got quieter. “I know.”

“What do you want me to do?” he demanded. He was deflating, and he tried to hold onto the anger, because that was easier.

“Damn it, Peter, I want you to talk to me sometimes! You can call me and say that you’re having a bad day instead of just — going out all night and then showing up at my window beat to hell and shaking because you don’t know how to ask for help!”

“That’s not what that is! I get hurt sometimes, if you can’t deal with that I’ll stop visiting!”

“This week has been terrible! You never get — it’s never that bad, Peter.”

“I’m distracted,” he said.

“You’re distracted? Your head’s not even there!”

“Stop it, Gwen!”

“You’re being stupid!” Gwen took a deep breath and softened. “Don’t do this again.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Push me away.  You think if I get mad enough I’ll leave you alone? Is that what you want?”

No. Yes. “I don’t know.”

Gwen pressed her lips together and stared at him. “I went to my father’s funeral,” she said, “with my mother. And my brothers. My grandparents came in from Virginia to stay with us. It would have been so much better if you were there, but I wasn’t alone.”

“Okay,” Peter said. He stared at the cracked concrete beneath his feet and didn’t want to talk any more.

“Who was with you today, Peter?”

His throat ached, and he swallowed it down. He let the silence sit between them.

Gwen said, quietly, “I wanted to be there.”

“Okay,” Peter said again, because that was an easy, monosyllabic word that his mouth could form.  They were both quiet for a few seconds. Gwen stepped back and her weight shifted, like she wasn’t sure if she should leave, now that they were done yelling at each other. “Can you stay?” Peter asked, before she started making excuses and slipping away. “Just — please.”

“Yeah, Pete.” She sighed and her posture relaxed. “Of course I can.” And then her arms were around him, and he hugged her, hands shaking.

“Okay,” she whispered, after a few long moments. He laughed into her hair, but it was shallow. “It’s okay.”

“Let’s go inside,” he said. He let go of her, but she held on and tucked herself under his arm as they walked to the door.

In the living room, Sam and Nancy looked up at them, stopping their conversation. Peter shifted, torn between going back outside or trying to go upstairs. Nancy pushed on Sam’s arm. “We’ll get out of your way.”

“You don’t have to …” Peter started.

“We’ll just be in the dining room. It’s alright.”  They left, and Peter just stood a little awkwardly until Gwen rolled her eyes lightly and pulled him down onto the couch with her. She kicked her shoes off and then crossed her legs.

“Come here,” she said. “Lie down.”

“I’m already on the couch with you.” Peter looked dubiously at the doorway through which Sam and Nancy had disappeared. “I’m sure if I come any closer I’ll be breaking a rule.”

Gwen dismissed him and pulled him closer anyway. He ended with his arms wrapped around her waist and his head on her chest with her fingers carding through his hair. He could feel the tension uncoiling from his muscles, relaxing into Gwen’s touch.

“Witchcraft,” he muttered halfheartedly.

“I’m not doing anything,” she said. He could hear her voice through her chest, almost feel it. Her fingers rubbed down his neck and he closed his eyes. “Tired?” she asked.

“Exhausted.”

“Emotionally or physically?”

“Yeah,” he said.

She exhaled a very small laugh, and Peter smiled without opening his eyes. Instead of answering, she traced her fingers down his back and said, “Go to sleep, bug-boy.”

“Bossy and rude,” he mumbled, but he curled his arms tighter around her and let himself drift off.

Gwen sighed and hugged him as she felt his body relax against her, his head heavy against her chest as he fell into sleep that, honestly, he probably really needed. She curled her fingers through his hair, and thought: stupid boy.

She glanced out the window at the slowly darkening sky. She would have to go home soon, but she could stay with Peter for a little while. He needed the sleep.

She’d started drifting off herself when she heard a floorboard creak in the doorway, and a soft, “Oh, sorry.” Gwen opened her eyes and blinked up at Nancy, who was holding two cups of tea and looking apologetic for waking Gwen up.

“No, it’s alright.” Gwen scooted up, shifted and prodded Peter so his head was in her lap. He gave a soft grumble, but just nuzzled her stomach and went back to sleep with a huff. Nancy handed her a mug and Gwen took it, murmuring a thanks. “I was just letting him sleep.”

Nancy nodded. “He needs it.” She took the second mug for herself and sipped. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look that … relaxed.”

Gwen nodded and exhaled a soft sigh. “I know. He’s … always pretty stressed.”

Nancy watched Peter for a moment. “I don’t know what to do.”

Gwen didn’t know what to say. “I don’t think there’s very much else you can do. I know you’re trying, but …”

Nancy smiled softly. “But he doesn’t want us to.”

“It’s just, you’re not …”

“We’re not his aunt and uncle. I do understand.”

“He’s dealing with a lot.”

“Like what?”

Gwen looked down. “That’s not really mine to tell.”

“It’s just, he keeps coming home with bruises, and he’s out at all hours of the night …” Nancy sighed. “Just tell me how worried I should be?”

“No. No, it’s nothing like what you’re thinking.” Gwen touched Peter’s hair, and traced the outer edge of a bruise on his cheek. “It’s nothing bad. He’s not like, in trouble or something.”

“Well, what am I supposed to think?”

“Think that he’s just lost his family.” Gwen took a deep breath and looked up. “Think that he’s had a rough year on top of this. Think that you don’t know the whole story. Maybe trust him a little bit.”

Nancy gave a half-aborted head shake. “I know. But, I …”

Gwen waited for her to finish.  The silence fell between them, awkward and stilted, and stretched until Peter blinked himself awake and frowned up at her. She said, “Hey sleepy.”

He rubbed his eyes and stretched his back before he sat up and mumbled. “Did I sleep that long?” He cast a look to out the window. “It’s dark.”

“Just half an hour or so.” Gwen reached up and smoothed down his hair. He smiled crookedly and tilted his head. “I have to get home.”

“I’ll walk you,” he said. His gaze shifted to Nancy, like he just realized she was in the room, and just remembered that he was technically grounded. His chin tilted, and Gwen didn’t know if his look was him asking permission, or saying he was going to do it anyway.

Nancy said, “Go ahead and walk her home,” and then stood up, collecting Gwen’s tea cup and retreating back to the kitchen.

Peter watched her leave, and then sighed a little.

Gwen nudged him to get up, and they put coats on and took the train back to her house. Peter could have swung with her, and it would have been faster, but he didn’t mind the extra time, holding her hand as they rocked with the motion of the train.

When they reached her house, Gwen kissed him firmly on the lips and told him, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Peter’s lips quirked, and he said, “Yeah. Goodnight.”

Gwen kissed him again, and then went inside.

The next day after school, Peter made his way to Stark Tower. His backpack was heavy on his shoulders, and his feet were tired, but he needed to show up and at least make sure Stark knew he was still serious about the job.

Gwen had told him he was still serious about the job.

He took the elevator up and got off on the floor he’d been shown, the one with the lab Stark had said was open for him to use any time. (Peter distantly wondered if he really did mean any time, or if was more of an any time within business hours or any time with a prior appointment type thing.)

He still wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to be doing, here. Maybe that was something he should bring up with Stark.

The lab was dark when he walked in. Jarvis adjusted the lights as he set his stuff down, and Stark, at the end of the desk, looked up from where he’d been absorbed in three different glowing screens, and the holograms connecting them.

Peter wondered what he was doing, and if the man ever went home.

“Hey, kid. You bring coffee?” Stark asked.

“Um. No?” Peter kicked a lab stool out of his way and rolled up a chair. He glanced sideways at Stark. The man seemed different. Tired, or worn thin. Peter didn’t know.

“Eh. You’ll learn.” Stark hadn’t seemed to notice he’d missed a day, or maybe he was just being polite. Either way, Peter didn’t want to talk about it.

He swung around in the chair and watched Stark’s hands move for a minute, following the motions with his eyes, flicking back and forth, and Peter let his mind wander. His suit was still all bloody. He hadn’t found a minute to fix it without Nancy casting him looks. He had a back-up one, for situations. But honestly, he needed an upgrade. He wondered if Stark would stay absorbed enough in his own work that Peter could run some tests on the new material he’d been thinking of using. This lab would make upgrading his spandex that much easier.

He had a small pang of loss for his haphazard basement lab at home. It wasn’t nearly as functional as this lab, but … nostalgia. Comfort. Home.

Peter shook himself out of it. He sat up straighter and cast a glance at Stark, who was again absorbed and seemed to forget Peter was there. Good. He started pulling up tests and writing out the information he’d need to at least start on figuring out the fabric for a better suit. He spent the next couple hours working, testing, putting different materials together to make it stronger and safer. He kept it all vague enough that probably no one would look too deeply into it or figure out what it was, and if they did, no one would connect it with Spider-Man specifically.  Tony didn’t interrupt him or ask what he was doing, which was nice. Peter hadn’t been able to let himself zone out and just work in … a while.

The door opened, and Peter was immediately yanked out of his project. He looked up as a man walked in, shoulders hunched over a tan folder and ink smeared on his cheek and fingertips. Dark curly hair hiding his furrowed brow.

Bruce Banner, his brain immediately supplied. And then, oh wow, holy crap, Bruce Banner.

The man glanced up only briefly enough to murmur something at Jarvis, who lit up a screen for him. He sat down at a large chunk of clear table space and spread his papers out on the desk. He didn’t look up for a few minutes, and when he did make eye contact with Peter, he just went still for a heartbeat.

“Am I in the wrong lab?” he asked, his eyes so earnest that Peter had a hard time believing that he turned into a giant green monster sometimes.

“What? Um, no!” Well maybe. He didn’t know.

Stark glanced up at the noise, and he flicked his eyes between them once, assessing the situation. “Bruce! You’re fine. Right lab. Well, not the lab you were in a second ago, but that’s fine, Jarvis can transfer over whatever you were working on.” He waved his hand between the two of them, and Peter figured that was as close to an introduction as he was getting from Stark.

“I’m Peter,” he said.

“Oh, so you’re the new intern. Tony’s talked about you.” Bruce held out his hand, and Peter shook it. He was shaking Bruce Banner’s hand. Tony talked about him?

“Oh,” he said. “That’s, uh, good, I guess?”

“Yeah.” Bruce offered a smile, which had the effect of putting Peter at ease. “He said you’re a good catch.”

“I find the best stuff!” Stark chimed in, still absorbed in his project. “You can’t steal him! In fact, don’t even look at him! Jarvis! Erect a forcefield around Parker that bends the light so no one can see him. Except me. I can see him.” Peter stared at Stark in silence for a few seconds before, without looking up, Stark added, “Never mind, J, dumb idea.”

Jarvis said, “Of course, sir.”

Bruce chuckled. “Peter, what are you working on?”

Peter choked on a breath and said, “Oh. Um, I’m not … It’s just school stuff. Nothing very interesting.” How long did he think he could lie about that? Also he was apparently a horrible liar.

Jarvis’s voice came from above him. “Would you like me to pull up your schematics, Mr. Parker?”

“No!” Peter said quickly, and then realized that sounded totally suspicious, so he said, “It’s nothing very interesting yet.”

“Of course, Mr. Parker. Perhaps a coat of color would spice it up? Might I suggest a red or a blue?”

“Jarvis!” Peter swallowed. Did that mean the computer knew who he was? Did that mean Stark knew? No, if he knew he would have said something. Coulson said Stark didn’t know. “It’s fine, Jarvis.”

Bruce shook his head, like he honestly couldn’t care how weird Peter was, and he said, “Okay. That’s alright.”

Both of the scientists seemed content to fall quiet and go back to their respective work, and Peter appreciated that. He sat back in his chair and pulled up his schematics again, altering a chemical balance and running it through another test. He glanced at the ceiling, worried about Jarvis, but he didn’t exactly seem like he was going to do anything other than … tease Peter. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Maybe Jarvis had already told Stark.

Peter glanced over at Tony, who looked completely checked out, absorbed in his own world. He wasn’t sure.

The silence stretched, all of them comfortable absorbed in their own work, until a phone rang. Peter jumped at the sudden blast of music, but Tony seemed unfazed and he put his phone to his ear, still typing something with the opposite hand.

“Hey, Pep. I’ll have the prototype for the Paris project finished by tomorrow, I can send you the results,” Stark said, eyes busy. Peter watched him pause, and then narrow his eyes. “What do you mean dinner? Did I forget something? Jarvis, you’re supposed to tell me about things like this.” Another small pause. “Why are you upstairs? Do I owe you flowers? Is this one of those things —” He cut himself off, and then frowned. “No, I’m not trying to start something! Seriously, do I owe you flowers? You need to tell me. No, do not send Steve down, I swear to god —”

Stark took a deep breath and put his phone down. Very calmly, he said, “Well, fuck.”

From the other end of the lab, Bruce snorted.

“Hey! Do not laugh at me, Jolly Green. This is your downfall, too.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows. “What? No, I’m not involved in any of that.”

Tony wrinkled his nose in a frown. “We’re having dinner. Upstairs. With the team. For no apparent reason other than Pepper thinks I need to ‘get out of the lab and talk to civilized people, Tony, real people, not ones you’ve built.’”

Bruce shrugged and gave him a look that Peter thought meant, _well, that’s a fair assessment_.  Tony pulled a face and threw a dog-eared notebook toward Bruce petulantly. It landed in the middle of the floor, nowhere near anyone, and Tony turned away, back to his computer.

“Actual five-year-old Tony Stark, everyone,” Bruce said. Tony flipped him off, and Bruce laughed.

“Everyone thinks you’re so nice, Banner,” Tony muttered. “But I see through you.”

Peter tried to laugh quietly.

Bruce said, “I turn into a giant angry radiation monster. Literally no one thinks I’m nice.”

“Steve thinks you’re nice.”

“Steve thinks everyone is nice,” he said. “Except you.”

“That’s not a fair —”

“You lied to him.”

“One time! One incident.”

“You lie to him all the time.”  

“What does he lie about?” Peter asked, shutting down his work and turning off the computers and screens he was using.

“He told him NASA wasn’t real,” Bruce said.

“I told him it was unconfirmed where the taxpayers money was going —”

“Which is a lie.”

“And NASA is a bum organization and I could have gone to the moon too, if I wanted.”

“You told him the moon landing was filmed in Hollywood.”

“I’m still not convinced it wasn’t.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, but before he could answer, the door to the lab opened. Peter looked over and Captain America was standing in the doorway. Except, instead of patriotism and a cowl, or even the khakis and button-down he’d been wearing last time, he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, his hair messy like he’d just come out of the shower.

“Pepper says you’re in trouble,” Steve reported.

Tony threw his hands up, and Steve’s lips curved in a very slight smile.

“And that you both —” Steve’s eyes scanned over Peter, and then away. “— You all need to come to dinner.”

“Did you cook?” Tony demanded, still leaning back in his chair. “You know I only eat freshly prepared, home-made meals. Work with me here, Steve.”

Steve wrinkled his eyebrows in a kind of frown and said, “That’s just untrue.”

“Is not!”

“We ate at Denny’s last night,” Steve said. “And I’m all for shady diner food, but you have to realize that’s not the epitome of upscale cuisine.”

Tony scoffed. “You didn’t answer my question. Did you cook?”

Steve gave a resigned sigh.

“You did!” Tony said, thrusting both of his fists in the air. “It’s like having my very own Gordon Ramsay.”  

Steve furrowed his brows and tilted his head. “I don’t know who that is.”

“Awesome chef. Super nice guy. I met him once. We could film some Kitchen Nightmares! Except there would be no fixing us, and it would just end in disaster, both financially and emotionally.”

Steve had this dismayed, resigned look. Peter imagined he looked like that a lot when Tony went off like this. Maybe Tony did it on purpose.

Bruce said, “He doesn’t seem very nice on his shows.”

“Would I compare Steve to anyone mean?”

“Yes,” Bruce said.

“All the time,” Steve said.

“What?” Tony cried. “When?”

“Every morning.”

“Name one time.” Tony crossed his arms and sat up in his chair.

“When I make you eat some toast before I let you take a third cup of coffee. Every other day, and most weekends.”

“... Maybe,” Tony said.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Well. Dinner’s ready, we’re waiting on you.”

Tony wrinkled his face, but he swung himself out of his chair. “Yes, mother.”

Bruce got up as well, motioning for Peter to follow Tony out, and he locked the lab behind him. Steve led them into the elevator and up onto the shared floor which held the dining room and a huge living room.

Peter might still be a little bit in awe of everything. There was a television bigger than his bed. That was awe-worthy.

His attention was drawn to the cluster of people standing around the kitchen, crowding around a counter and arguing in a friendly way. The table was piled high with food and Peter couldn’t tell if it was homemade or ordered out, but either way it looked delicious. It seemed to be an organized chaos, or maybe just a well-meant chaos.

Steve stepped in, all bare feet and ruffled hair, and crowded the rest of the team over to the table, carrying the last of the food and quelling the arguments with seemingly no effort at all.

Peter wasn’t sure how Steve managed to look commanding even now, but he did. Maybe the team just automatically did what he said. Carryover from the field.

He sat down at the table with a small grin, and everyone else settled in around him. He knew almost all of them by sight. Bruce, the Captain, Black Widow, Hawkeye, Tony. Next to Tony sat a woman who Peter assumed was Pepper Potts.

Not all of them knew him, though, and he couldn’t help feeling a little bit awkward as he received three sets of stares ranging from mildly curious to indifferent to downright threatening.

Finally Hawkeye huffed and said, “Pepper, he’s bringing home strays again,” with much more whine to his tone than Peter expected from a superhero.

“Peter’s not a stray, he’s an intern,” said Pepper. She seemed pretty intimidating for someone with such soft features. She narrowed her eyes and brushed a few strands of almost-red hair behind her ear. “Be nice, Clint.”

“I’m always nice,” he said, holding his hand up in surrender, and then reached for the bowl of bread, loading his plate.

Black Widow made a sound in the back of her throat, and Peter would have called it amused, if her gaze wasn’t still fixed on him sharply. It was kind of unsettling. Peter tried to ignore it.

Beyond that, the rest of the Avengers seemed to accept his presence. Steve tried to make polite conversation, asking about his family and school. Peter neatly sidestepped the questions about his family – he didn’t want to get into that, not here – but talked about school, how Tony pulled him out of classes, which made Tony pipe up defensively. Peter grinned.

The Black Widow stayed quiet as the group fell into conversation, and Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew. But that was dumb; he had only really interacted with her that once, and he hadn’t really spoken. There wasn’t any way she could have connected him to Spider-Man.

But still, unease settled in his stomach.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey wow so it's been ... afewmonths *cough cough* 
> 
> So. Real life happened. Sorry I'm terrible at consistently updating. Thanks for your patience. 
> 
> Thanks, Odysseus37 for motivation and beta reading, and thanks Snarkustotallus for being awesome at editing and nitpicking.


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